


Measuring Damage

by lil_utterance (persephone_flees)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:13:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone_flees/pseuds/lil_utterance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She hasn't felt this way since Faith, all bothered and hot and wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measuring Damage

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Multi Fandom Het Porn Battle](http://jenab.livejournal.com/329833.html) hosted by jenab.  
> Prompt: Buffy, Buffy/Spike, battle scars.

It's hard to say which one of them has more scars.

She doesn't even know how to count them anymore.

They've both taken their fair share of permanent damage. Though he's been around longer, she's been in a never-ending line of battles since she became Slayer—and more than a few of them have involved him. Naked together, neither can ever forget the other's violent handiwork. She feels only slightly comforted by the knowledge that though she might sport some of his blemishes 'till she dies, he'll wear her scars for forever.

Then there are the transient marks that mar their bodies, the imprints of teeth littered across flesh; their existence highlights the presence of blood beneath pale, unbroken skin.

Do bruises count as battle scars?

She doesn't know, but she can't help biting him when they lie entwined, though she'd always considered that a vamp-thing, an appropriate course of action for the yellow-eyed and fangy. And indeed, he does match her bite for bite, his blue eyes daring her to object, to pull away from the pain. She doesn't. She might hate to think she's becoming more like him, but she loves the sounds he makes as his body yields to her mouth.

In the end, the bruises they leave mean nothing. They are visible echoes to each gasp of their perversions, but later examination of the damage only provides a faint reminder of earlier pleasures. It is the least of what they do to each other.

Most of their blows go unacknowledged and unseen. Every time they speak, it's impossible for one of them not to bleed. After a night with him, she feels bloodless, her fingernails digging into her skin as she clenches her hands into too-white fists, promising herself she will not hit him again.

It's a promise she cannot manage to keep.

She hasn't felt this way since Faith, all bothered and hot and wrong. Except this time, it's different. This time, these are the only nights, he is the only thing, that she ever feels. It doesn't matter that they avoid most of the soft surfaces in the crypt, doesn't matter that they avoid reaching for more than the edges of each other—it all just doesn't matter. It just _feels_.

So she allows him to pin her against the wall, and only at the last minute does she send a hand arcing up to his face. He accepts the punch with a laugh and pulls her even tighter against him.

"Dance with me, pet," he says.

And once more the battle begins.


End file.
